


Soteria

by Felgia_Starr



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, F/M, War, With A Twist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-03
Packaged: 2021-01-17 06:55:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21262661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Felgia_Starr/pseuds/Felgia_Starr
Summary: 150 years after Voldemort won the Greatest War, nothing has changed. The Rebellion is still fighting against His regime. The Salvation is still defending their benevolent Dark Lord. Several generations came and went, but the world remains the same. Who knows? Maybe things will change soon. Maybe when fate forces Prince Draco of the Salvation and Hermione of the Rebellion to meet in the only neutral zone in the world, somethingdifferentwill finally happen.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 12
Kudos: 45
Collections: DFW Trope Fest 2019





	Soteria

**   
**

**  
30th of August 150 AV  
  
  
**The small flames that formed from the red candles dance before Hermione’s eyes, flitting about with the wind, whipping its body without a care in the world. She finds the fire fascinating—at least more worthy of her attention than what the Phoenix Priest is preaching.  
  
“Let the Phoenix rise again!” her people cheer in response to the Phoenix Priest, their voices filled with the kind of hope Hermione’s been dreaming of her entire life.   
  
She chances a glance at the tomb effigy of the late but great Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, or what she was taught to call the Phoenix or God. She wonders if this is what he would’ve wanted for his legacy, to be paraded around the Rebellion as the saviour that will never come again, to be worshipped every 30th of the month 150 years after his downfall by the same people who would fight by his side.  
  
Hermione doesn’t really think that humans become gods after death, but in a way she cannot explain, it feels good to believe in something, to keep praying even though it’s never guaranteed. So, she closes her eyes and prays the exact moment the Phoenix Priest commanded it.  
  
She prays for peace; she prays for the end of the war; she prays for the safety of the children, the same children she’s willing to die and kill for, the same children she considers as her own, and the same children she wants to see lead the future, with contentedness in their faces instead of hunger, instead of fear and anxiety. That’s it.  
  
Her eyes open in time to see the candles be flushed out by the Phoenix Priest’s breath. She takes that as a sign that her prayers will never really come to life.   
  
Maybe gods are too feeble to answer such prayers.   
  
Hermione straightens her back, fixing a disappointed glare at the candles.   
  
Maybe gods have never truly cared for any of them.  
  
“‘Mione! ‘Mione!” a squealing girlish voice breaks her out of her thoughts, instantly making her turn in its direction.  
  
The grin that spreads on Hermione’s face is automatic yet genuine. “Ginny!”  
  
The four-year-old girl giggles, her red hair spilling all over her face as she speeds up her jog towards her even more.  
  
When they meet in the middle, Ginny immediately jumps into her open arms, and Hermione welcomes her love like something she’s been missing her whole life.   
  
But maybe gods give blessings, too, hidden blessings through different disguises.   
  


* * *

**30th of August 150 AV  
  
  
**Blood looks black in the middle of the night, Draco realizes, or is it only this man, lying lifeless before him, who had a soul so rotten that his barely-existing heart poured out nothing but liquid darkness?

The man’s name was Walter Thaw, an infamous general from the Rebellion, most well-known for his ‘habits’—he became the poison dripping from every tongue in the Salvation when he kept on kidnapping and raping Salvation women until they were dead, always making sure to send at least one part of the women’s corpses to the gates of his father’s castle. 

Earlier today, his Lord father had enough of hearing about this smarmy general and sent Draco to ‘put him down, in the name of justice.’ Of course, he had no choice, as a son and a Prince, but to follow his Lord father’s orders, even if disgust twists around his stomach at the very thought of cutting off someone’s life, even if guilt strums his heartstrings after each assassination.   
  
It is such a great irony that the Salvation’s very own Shadow Prince, the greatest assassin to have ever walked the Earth, resents resorting to violence. Draco does not think it is just of him to take anyone’s life, though he also knows he shouldn’t let guilt consume him—he knows that Walter Thaw was one of the worst, if not the worst, human beings to have ever lived.   
  
So why does he feel tears prickling at his eyes as he continues to stare at the old man’s corpse? He’s the Shadow Prince; he should protect his people, not cut their throats and leave their eyes wide open with fear for the rest of eternity.  
  
But, his Lord father would argue that he is protecting his people by reducing the numbers of monsters in this world.  
  
Can he say Walter Thaw is a monster, though, what with the blood that is slowly pouring out of his mouth at the moment?    
  
During conflicting times like this, Draco wonders what his real parents would think of his less-than-favourable actions. He’s never interacted with them his whole life, the closest thing to a connection with them being the two names he’s been told they gave him—Draco Lucius—but he sometimes wonders if they’re similar to him in one way or another. In his mind, he pictures his mother as a beautiful woman with blonde hair, compassion in her eyes and kindness in her smile and his father as a stern man with no regrets, certainty present in his calculating grey eyes.    
  
Would they think him a monster himself? Would they ever forgive him if so? If not, would they constantly set pressure upon pressure on his shoulders like his Lord father does? Would they make him look away from all the dead bodies he sees even behind his closed lids?   
  


The shadows help, the same shadows the Salvation worship his Lord father for. The shadows hide the most human characteristic of the dead man before him, but it will never be enough. 

Blood looks black in the middle of the night, but why can’t the darkness wash away the red stains this war left on his otherwise pristine hands?  
  
Draco hears a wolf’s mournful howl in the distance and is reminded of his dangerous predicament. He instantly turns to where he came from, the foolishly-open window of General Walter Thaw’s bedroom, and refuses to look back as he leaps, letting the shadows dote over him and protect him once more.  
  


* * *

**19th of September 150 AV  
  
  
**“Happy birthday, ‘Mione!” the children sitting in front of her cheer, their innocent and joyful tones giving life to Hermione’s now 18-year-old soul. Most of the time, she would be against the absolute butcher of her name, but when she hears it as the children’s genuine attempt to pronounce all three syllables, she always makes an exception.  
  
Ever since she turned 13, Hermione makes sure to spend her birthday surrounded by children like her, by children who’ve been abandoned by their parents. This year, deciding to take a break from the war, Hermione chose to leave Wulfric City and celebrate her birthday somewhere bloodshed, explosion, and massacre cannot touch—the Land of Soteria, the only demilitarized zone in the world, or more specifically, the Church of Soteria where orphans of the war are often kept.  
  
She smiles at all the flower crowns and flower necklaces the children made for her as a gift. Soteria isn’t known for its gold or glory, but its heart lies with the humble people who call it home and even the children who wear kindness as armour. The war-free land opens its arms to Rebels and Saviours alike, never finding a difference between the two, so long as they leave their arms at home and enjoy Soteria for the beauty it is. Soteria has become the closest place Hermione can call home. She often comes here whenever she finds the time to visit the children.  
  
The said seven orphans of the Church before her—Amir, Gaeb, Harry, Lance and Guin, Luna, and Teddy—are what she considers as family. Some of the younger ones, like Teddy and Amir, has taken to calling her mum while the older ones told her they think of her as ‘the best older sister ever!’  
  
The children are now playing with the toys she bought them using the money she stole from a Shadow Guard during the last battle. Hermione feels no guilt, even as the dead man’s face flashes in her mind, for she knows that finally, the Shadow Guard’s gold is being used for something good.  
  
The smile that’s been on her face since dawn drops when she sees the children’s sudden change of expression from joyful eagerness to alarmed faces. Hermione hears footsteps coming from behind her, light and almost unnoticeable—like that of a trained assassin. Fear spreads from her toes to her stomach, a sickeningly cold feeling that never seems to settle down.   
  
The guarded gaze of the goddess, Soteria—the one the whole neutral zone was named after—steals her eyes, assuring her that everything is fine and that the children are safe, that they will not be harmed by the guest. And for the nth time in her life, Hermione wonders if gods are real. Do they manifest themselves in statues and effigies made in their memory?  
  
“Draco!” the children squeals, getting up to their feet and running towards the not-assassin guest.  
  
She’s heard that name before, but she cannot recall where or when. Turning her head to see the man for herself, Hermione staggers in shock when she finally does.   
  
Standing along the aisle, back turned against the entrance, is none other than the Shadow Prince of the Salvation himself. His almost-silver and almost-golden hair glints against the warm sun of midday, proxying for the crown she knows he’s hidden. His pale and cold eyes narrow in recognition at the sight of her, tensing up at the thought of being this close to the enemy. Hermione almost lets out a smirk when she sees his hand hovering over what must be his concealed wand holster. Apparently, even the son of Voldemort himself defy his own father’s laws.  
  
Of course, she recognized his name! His name, Draco Lucius Gaunt, is something she often hears from other Phoenix Warriors, uttered with bitter poison and vile loathing.   
  
She’s more concerned with one question, though—what is _he _doing here? The Church of Soteria has no place for spineless serpents and shadows. Hermione remembers her own wand, sitting prettily inside her hidden holster. She would’ve drawn it as soon as she realized who he is, if not for the fact that they are currently in what is considered a sacred place, and bloodshed in the Land of Soteria, once dubbed as ‘the safest place in the world,’ would be frowned upon.   
  
Her question is answered when the Prince turns his attention to the children. Admittedly, the wide genuine grin that breaks out of his face at the sight of her beloved orphans makes her feel things… things that are uncomfortable, to say the least. It is better to see the enemy as a cruel uninviting monster rather than as a smiling, hugging _person.__  
__  
_“Harry,” the prince calls out, the smile on his lips never fading.   
  
At 11 years of age, Harry’s the eldest of all the orphans. Dropped on the Church’s doorstep when he was a baby, her heart has always felt closest to him, since she herself has been abandoned by her birth parents the minute she was born at the Temple of the Phoenix. Maybe that’s why she’s never liked the place.  
  
“I’ve found you a home,” the Shadow Prince reveals, some sort of peace settling over his pale and sharp features.  
  
Hermione’s heart begins to race for some reason, and when she hears the choked sound Harry makes in response to the Prince’s words, tears of happiness well up in her eyes.  
  
“Really?” Harry whispers in shock.  
  
“Really.” The prince nods, his smile as bright as the sun above them.  
  
Silence follows, but it doesn’t take long before she hears Harry cry softly and rush towards the prince to wrap his arms around him. Draco does not hesitate to hug Harry back, and at that moment, Hermione realizes that humanity can be found even during the darkest and ugliest times of history.  
  
She wipes the tears that stuck to her lashes; the prince turns his gaze back to her and all she sees there is a promising gleam.   
  
Hermione nods in response to his look.  
  
They will talk after the children are asleep.

* * *

Draco Lucius Gaunt’s eyes, she realizes, are a brilliant shade of grey, not pale and dead like she initially thought, but instead captivating and bright as they spit hate at her. The prince himself looks like deception. It is… an exhilarating experience to stare at him.   
  
“Why shouldn’t I kill you right now?” they both snarl simultaneously and for a quick second, Hermione wonders if their minds work the same way.   
  
The very thought makes Hermione flinch inwardly. She shows no weakness as their staring match continues. She doesn’t provide an answer to his question either, as does he. They just keep staring at each other as though the last one to look away would be declared the victor of this Phoenix-awful war.   
  
Hermione soon feels the warmth of his proximity though and automatically, her own body warms up in response to his, so she decides to be the mature one and take home the white flag tonight, removing her eyes from his intense silver ones.   
  
“We’re in Soteria,” she mutters her response through gritted teeth, glancing back at him for a quick moment.   
  
He nods sternly. “This never happened.”   
  
Sighing exhaustively, Hermione’s gaze turns to the sky. “Never.”   
  
She feels him get closer to her, bringing his lips next to her ear, whispering a taunt, “Happy birthday, Hermione of the Rebellion.”   
  
Some of the kids must’ve told him. In a way, she feels betrayed, but she can never stay mad at any of the children.   
  
He chuckles against her ear, and she hates that her body shudders at the feel of his breath so close to her skin, but before she can push him away in indignation, the prince seemingly disappears.    
  
Hermione turns her head left, then right, searching for a trace, but she knows that he is gone, the shadows serving as his accomplice and protection.   
  
What a smug bastard.  
  


* * *

**5th of October 150 AV  
  
**  
What an irritating bitch.  
  
Hermione of the Rebellion is one irritating bitch.  
  
His furious eyes refuse to leave her form, moving expertly through the crowd, her hands going in and out of homeless old people’s satchels as she takes all the cans of food and bottles of water they were previously in line for. He cannot believe what he is seeing.  
  
On unbusy days like this, he loves going to the Land of Soteria and even the slums of the Salvation to see what he can do for his people. Sometimes, people ask for money. Sometimes, food and water. Sometimes, a home. With his father’s money, Draco tries his best to give them all they need. It’s a way of giving back to his people. It’s his way of apologizing to them for not being enough.  
  
Today, he provides a seemingly unlimited source of non-perishable food and drinking water for all the homeless people in Soteria. Everything was doing great. Perfect, even.  
  
Until he saw _her.__  
__  
_Draco is quite familiar with her now, having seen her face every night in his cryptic dreams since he saw her in the Church of Soteria. Although, he has never imagined her to be doing something this… inhumane—stealing from the poor and the elderly.   
  
Forget irritating, this bitch is heartless.  
  
Hermione of the Rebellion catches his gaze, and he can see her breath catching. Draco takes a menacing step forward to attempt to intimidate her. It works, but then, she starts to run away.  
  
It’s a good thing that Draco loves a wild chase.  
  
She’s quick on her feet, but he carries his body like it’s nothing, catching up to the Rebel with no problem.  
  
The wind blows through his hair, the pavement soft against his boots, and their witnesses’ amused laughter rings across his ears—suddenly, he feels free. Here. Chasing an enemy for stealing from innocent people.  
  
His Lord father has always told him that he’s unnecessarily sentimental.  
  
Draco speeds up when he sees her trip over her own shoes. When he catches up with her, he immediately pins her against the wall, holding her prisoner in his own arms. Their eyes meet, and for the second time in his life, he is taken aback by the utter expressiveness of her brown eyes.  
  
Her face is flushed from exhaustion or maybe the adrenaline. Her chest heaves up and down, trying to inhale and exhale air properly. Her brown curls spread all over like a mane, looking like the queen he’s always dreamt of having. She’s angry, her eyes burning a hole into his very soul. If he’s not in his right mind at the moment, he’s pretty sure he would’ve taken her lips for his, finally getting a taste of the forbidden fruit.  
  
Draco shakes his head, pushing the thoughts out of his mind. He tries to remember his anger instead when he saw her stealing from his people, his people who’ve always been the real victims of this war.  
  
“Why?” he asks her, righteous fury burning through his veins.  
  
A hardened glare is the answer he gets from her; a sneer, he feels, slowly forms on his mouth.  
  
“Have you any heart at all?”  
  
Hermione of the Rebellion continues to say nothing, only looking at him as though he’s the worst person in the world. Draco urges himself to calm down, to not defend himself from her gaze.   
  
He thinks the same of her, anyway.  
  


* * *

  
**23rd of October 150 AV  
  
**  
Hermione clasps her hands together in front of her chest, bringing it to her lips as she gets captivated by the seemingly-alive gaze of the statue of Soteria, the neutral zone’s patron goddess of safety.   
  
A whimper doesn’t fail to escape her lips, accompanied by the tears that seamlessly pour down her eyes.  
  
Three days ago, some sort of explosion occurred on the white shores of the Aberforth Islands, caused by an unsuspecting bomb dropped by Salvation forces, effectively killing off two villages nearby. The news reached Wulfric City way too late, and when she and the other Phoenix Warriors got there, nothing could be done. Not even wand-wielders such as herself could stop the aftermath of the attack.   
  
When they arrived, everything was ash—the wooden huts, the fishes that inhabited the seashores, the children who’ll forever be asleep—and deadly silent. No screams can be heard in the aftermath of a disaster or a massacre, after all. Everything was wiped out. To this day, the dreadful sound of ashes beneath her feet continue to pierce her ears, leaving behind a ghost that she knows will follow her to the grave.  
  
In retaliation, the Rebellion set fire to the Salvation’s precious Black Forest, a hillside woodland below Meropetown, inhabited by at least 700 people from four different villages—and since then, Hermione sees death every waking moment. Explosions everywhere. Fire everywhere. Ashes everywhere. Dead children everywhere.  
  
When will it cease? When will the children be safe?  
  
She shuts her eyes, the tears still falling as her mind conjures up images of a better world, of the future she wishes to see come true. Hermione sees the children now grow up to be responsible adults ruling the world far better than their ancestors ever hoped to be. She sees them far away from all the destruction and deaths, from all the fires and bombs. The children are safe in her own world.  
  
She just hopes that it will come to life somehow.   
  
Hermione sets her gaze back to meet the goddess’s.  
  
“Please,” she begs for the statue of Soteria to listen to her pleas, to care about the welfare of the world. Soteria is the second deity she’s prayed to today. First, she went to the Temple of the Phoenix, hoping that Albus Dumbledore would come back and save the children he failed to protect.  
  
Now, she asks Soteria for the same thing—to protect the children, to keep them from harm, and to ensure that they will lead the future Hermione wants for them.  
  
Her hands are quick to wipe the tears off her face when she hears footsteps coming from the orphanage part of the Church of Soteria, her back stiffening as the previously unknown person becomes none other than Prince Draco of the Salvation himself.  
  
Is it a coincidence that they always end up in the presence of each other? Hermione doesn’t know. The last time they saw each other, he had her pinned to a wall. He looked angry, and at that time, Hermione felt the need to apologize, but she never did.  
  
He plods three steps forward before pausing to stare at her. She stares back, unsure of what to do next.  
  
The intensity of his eyes doesn’t help her already overemotional state. Not one bit. Now, there are at least three emotions going through her body—desperation, great misery, and deep longing.   
  
Prince Draco glances to the goddess she’s been praying to earlier before looking back at her, awkwardly shifting his weight on one leg.  
  
Hermione’s mouth opens before she realizes it. “Do you think that gods are real?”  
  
His brows rise for a quick second as if he’s surprised to hear the question coming from her. The prince turns up his head to get another, longer look at Soteria’s statue. After a few seconds, he finally comes up with an answer, “I… I do not know.”  
  
She scoffs, rolling her eyes. “What kind of—”  
  
But the prince is not yet done, Hermione’s eyes widening as he continues, “If they _are _real, then they’re kind of cruel, aren’t they? They must take joy in watching the same people they created suffer, because why else would they let it happen? Or maybe gods just don’t care about lowly beings like us. Maybe mortal lives have little-to-no significance to them.”  
  
“I’ve thought about that as well,” Hermione mumbles, nodding, “and what kind of gods are they if they’re too powerless to end this war with one command?”  
  
Hermione thinks that the Church of Soteria must have the ability to make anyone in it to tell the truth and only the truth. Maybe this place makes every wall Hermione and the prince put up around them to strip down, leaving only their bare souls and genuine selves. There is simply no other explanation as to why she suddenly finds herself agreeing with everything the Shadow Prince is saying.   
  
“And if they aren’t real, well why did we humans ever come up with them?” Draco sits next to her, not a single hint of hesitation present. “Are they supposed to symbolize hope and glory for feeble-minded people? Or are they the reasons why _humans_, in general, are lazy and continue to wish for things rather than work for them?”  
  
Hermione finds herself chuckling at his unexpectedly strange antics, her mood lighter than it ever has been before.  
  
“Has one of your prayers ever come true before?” Draco asks, a hint of a smile gracing his lips.  
  
Soteria’s gaze feels heavy on Hermione’s shoulders as she thinks about her response. When she looks back at Draco to finally voice her answer, she finds herself getting lost in the depths of his glittering silver eyes. She’s never seen him this close before. And truth be told, Prince Draco of the Salvation is one good-looking person. Staring at him for too long makes her feel warm and… weird, but she has to admit that she loves the way he is looking at her at this very moment. He’s clearly the enemy, but he looks at her as a comrade, a friend even.  
  
Hermione doesn’t understand why this particular moment is the first time she’s ever felt like a real human being.  
  
Her cheeks warm up despite her inward cursing, and she forces herself to look away from him. “Not really.”  
  
The prince releases a small laugh, the sound echoing against the walls of the Church, sending strange tingles across Hermione’s spine.   
  
At the end of the day, when she has to return to her training and he has to return to his kingdom and after they’ve made friends out of each other, Hermione asks him one last question, “Will I see you again?”  
  
Draco smiles in an enigmatic way, lighting up her whole week even more. “A prince should always be available to serve his lady.”  
  
Then, he leaves.  
  
But also, he returns the day after. And also the day after that, and the day after that. Until chanced encounters with him become purposeful and intentional and _wanted_.  
  


* * *

**29th of November 150 AV  
**  
  
To Draco and other soldiers, adrenaline feels like a cold addictive drug rushing through the arteries and veins. During his worst days, adrenaline is the only thing that keeps him up and running, keeps him standing and fighting.  
  
Like right now. At this very moment.  
  
Sweat drips down his neck, his and someone else’s blood stain his black robes, and every green light that shoots out of his wand means nothing but death for the receiving end. The Killing Curse is a difficult spell to master; it takes precise determination and the right amount of gut.   
  
Draco only lets out his wand when necessary. He doesn’t want to be seen by the wrong people with it—wand-wielding or magic was outlawed by his Lord father 150 years ago, after all, and it would be a scandalous image to see the Dark Lord’s own son disobeying his orders.  
  
After the guards have fallen, Draco continues running, only hesitating slightly when he hears one of his men scream in pain behind him. He has gone this far. This is not the time to turn back now, not when they already have the Rebellion’s war prisoners beside them.  
  
He sprints faster when the scent of death and blood reaches his nose. He’s never once enjoyed killing, but he knows he killed those guards for the right reasons tonight. They successfully rescued all the Salvation prisoners from the Ripple Guardhouse—the crimes he committed tonight are for the greater good.  
  
Draco gulps down the guilt that formed in his throat when at least three more of his men are gunned down by the Phoenix Warriors, who conveniently arrive just when they’re about to climb on the ship.  
  
Ignoring the shots of fire that collide with the men on his left and right, Draco pushes himself forward, into the ship and further away from the Rebellion’s evil fires. Later that night, after too much Firewhisky, Draco will stand on the railings of his ship, tears in his eyes whilst the dead faces of the men who walked the very same ship as he is only a few hours ago linger on his mind.  
  
The Rebellion can say all they want about how unappealing and atrocious darkness is, but his people aren’t the ones who are obsessed with the stench of roasted flesh, the screams of people as they burned alive, and the sharp feel of the black smoke in their lungs. The Salvation worships the Dark Lord and therefore, the shadows or the darkness. There is a certain protection one can feel while surrounded by utter darkness. They keep their kills clean, almost unnoticeable, before fading away into the night, not waiting for dawn to give light to their sins.   
  
Draco supposes it’s not a battle of who’s more immoral and wrong. It’s always been a battle of who’s stronger and who’s better. Frankly, he’s tired of it—the war.  
  
When they set sail, still evading attacks from the Phoenix Warriors, he releases a sigh of relief, a relief that’s short-lived.  
  
He looks back at the island, breath catching in his throat when he catches a glimpse of the disgusted eyes set upon him.   
  
_Hermione.__  
__  
_To say that this is the first time he’s seen her this week would be a lie. If he’s to tell the truth, he’d meet up with her every day of the week. Hermione Granger of the Rebellion is one of the few people in the world he can have an actual intelligent conversation with. Draco found that she holds passion for just about anything she says, and he doesn’t really know why, but he also enjoys the way her cheeks flush red whenever he’d say or do princely things, the way she laughs so easily around him, and the way her eyes turn into glittering gold when they end up talking even during the late hours and her eyes would reflect from the lit candles nearby.   
  
Hermione Granger is probably the most beautiful thing to ever come out of this grotesque and prolonged war. Whenever he’s with her, his entire world seems to turn normal—like he’s just a normal 17-year-old boy secretly meeting up in a church with a girl that he admires deeply. Draco doesn’t really know what being a normal teenager feels like, but he likes to imagine that it would feel as delightful as the moments he shares with her.  
  
She’s so clearly the enemy, but she’s also the most important person to Draco at the moment.  
  
And he hates the way she’s looking at him right now—with the most scalding fury and the most gut-wrenching disappointment he’s ever seen. This is not to say that Draco is unfamiliar with such expressions sent in his direction; he’s seen that kind of anger and disappointment from his own Lord father ever since he was a child, up until now. More often than not, _that _kind of look is what Draco comes home to, so it is unheard of to say that he’s offended by it.  
  
He just…   
  
He doesn’t want Hermione looking at him like that.   
  
Draco averts his gaze away from her, looking up to the stars instead. Guilt begins to settle in on his stomach, and he knows it will be a while before he can completely get rid of it.  
  
It will be a long night.  
  


* * *

**30th of November 150 AV  
  
  
**“You’re nothing like I thought you were!”  
  
“And what exactly did you think I was, Hermione? A boy turned soft by the symptoms of war, unwilling to commit violence even if it’s for the greater good?”  
  
“I at least thought you had some kind of heart in you! And what greater good are you talking about? You murdered my people!”  
  
“And I rescued mine!”  
  
“Rescue? Of course, up until now, you still think yourself some Prince Charming ready to save the world! Well, let me tell you something, Draco—you’re not saving anybody and you’re just as terrible as the rest of us!”  
  
“Don’t speak of my crimes as though you haven’t committed greater atrocities! You and your bird knights set my men on fire and probably laughed as they burned to death!”  
  
“From the flames the Phoenix shall rise again. You know nothing about my culture! I have never condemned you for all the immoral assassinations you’ve done, for all the people you killed in the middle of the night while they were sleeping, like someone who has no sense for basic human decency!”  
  
“Decency? Hermione, we’re at _war._”  
  
Hermione admonishes herself for letting the tears fall before quickly wiping them off. She will not show any sign of defeat. She will not show any sign of weakness. Swiftly regaining composure and calming herself down, she erases all hint of emotion in her face. “I know that. I just can’t believe you turned into one of them.”  
  
Furrowing his eyebrows, Draco’s silver eyes show confusion and frustration. “What do you mean?”  
  
She swallows the lump of emotion in her throat, refusing to meet his gaze. “You’re a monster.”  
  
She hears him scoff in indignation before he lets out an exasperated growl. “Well, you’re no better than I am. You’re a worse monster than me, Hermione.”  
  
Hermione does not know why, but to hear those words coming from him hurts her to the very core, and a sob escapes her lips even as she tries to suppress it. She hears an exhausted sigh coming from Draco in front of her, and the weariness has just begun to take over.  
  
Now that she’s let out her anger on him, she cannot find it in herself to continue to stay mad anymore. Everything they just said suddenly felt meaningless and worthless. What are the two of them doing fighting, knowing that they’re in the only neutral zone in the world for the sole reason of attempting to forget the war?  
  
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, looking to the statue of Soteria for some help.   
  
Draco sighs once more. “I’m sorry, too.”  
  
Hermione frowns and keeps pleading the goddess for a sign or something.   
  
Then, she feels something warm on her cheeks. Startled, she turns back to Draco and finds him way closer than before, his hands caressing her face.  
  
Her eyes shut automatically when his face gets nearer and nearer, letting out a sigh of her own when their lips finally meet.  
  
_Oh._  
  
His kiss feels like something blissful and miraculous. And she feels as though it’s not a big of a wish for wanting to stay here, pressed down by his lips, forever.  
  


* * *

**27th of December 150 AV**

  
In Draco’s opinion, snow has the ability to make something beautiful out of anything. The Sanctuary, the Salvation’s place of all things holy, looks like something out of a fairy tale, the white wisps continuously falling from the sky, practically making the whole place glow. Marvolo Castle, his family home, suddenly becomes a dream-like palace fit for all the pretty princesses and handsome knights in children’s stories. Even the sun, which Draco thinks is harsh and glaring most of the time, seems cool and crisp in the midst of a snowstorm.

And in the most fucked up way ever, the white snow on the Marvolo Castle’s front yard even romanticizes death at its ugliest form.   
  
Draco loathes death, but his eyes can never steer away from the mutilated Rebel corpses lined up in front of him.   
  
What has this war brought them but death and destruction? Granted, the war brought Hermione into his life, but what of the others? What of the innocents, the sons and daughters of the people who never wanted a war in the first place?   
  
They end up like the dead bodies in front of him, tortured without mercy and abandoned until the sun consumes their flesh or until the animals make a meal out of them.   
  
His thoughts race back to Hermione, conjuring up an image of her own corpse in a worse state than those before him. He also sees his Lord father standing over her corpse, a manic smile on his face, his crooked wand still glowing a tad from the aftermath of the Killing Curse. He hears his own pleas and screams while he stands by and watches his Lord father cut up Hermione’s body like a butcher.    
  
Draco forces himself to look away from the corpses that caused him to envision unwanted scenarios, ignoring the tears that well up in his eyes. He cannot imagine what he’ll do if Hermione dies because of him. He guesses that a world without her would be like a night without the moon or the stars because to him, Hermione is the single hint of light in his world of day-to-day darkness.   
  
The guilt that would inevitably consume him if Hermione dies because of his actions will be enough poison for him to take his own life. And what about the future? The future she’s always dreamt of? What good will it be if Hermione’s not there to see it?   
  
He cannot do that to her. She deserves better than him, and he’s always known that, but he’s always been too selfish to let her go. Until now.   
  
What were they thinking anyway? The Shadow Prince and a Phoenix Warrior falling for each other and staying together? The bleak world they live in can never handle that, at least not yet.    
  
And before his death, his only wish is to catch a glimpse of the world where a love like theirs would be accepted.  
  


* * *

**29th of December 150 AV  
  
  
**Once again, the flames from candles on the altar seem to mock her and laugh at her, swaying in the wind as though they’re living a free life. Is it too silly for her to aspire to be one of those candles? At least they don’t have to listen to the Phoenix Priest drone all day. At least their known world is safe and comfortable. At least they aren’t living during a time when the war’s beginning to lose its reason.  
  
“You know that love has always been accepted and even encouraged by the Temple of the Phoenix, Hermione,” the Phoenix Priest says, his tone patronizing as though he’s talking to a child; she resists the urge to roll her eyes, “but the Shadow Prince is incapable of love, you see. All of those foul shadows are! The prince is nothing but vermin and scum, undeserving of even catching a glimpse of how it feels like to be loved by a sweet girl like you. This war and this world have no place for forbidden teenage romances—you are a smart girl, Hermione, and I know you know this deep in your heart.”  
  
She grits her teeth, hating that the Phoenix Priest thinks he can change her mind with a few words. Hermione has always hated manipulative old people. Unlike the children she holds dear to her heart, old people are hypocrites and often dismissive of others’ pain, always insisting that they’ve had it worse as though there’s a competition for whoever suffers the most in life.   
  
They always talk like they know better as well, meddling over things they shouldn’t even be paying attention to.  
  
What a bunch of cunts.  
  
When she was summoned here a few hours ago, Hermione thought he was going to talk about her absence during the most recent tributes and ceremonies, but to her surprise, the Phoenix Priest began to tell her that she’s being followed whenever she goes to the Land of Soteria and that she’s been spotted having ‘inappropriate relations’ with the Shadow Prince.  
  
“You know what to do, Hermione,” the Phoenix Priest continues, his smug demeanour poorly-hidden by the smile he wears so often.   
  
Hermione rolls her eyes. “And what is that, my lord?”  
  
“I know that the Phoenix in your heart will guide you back into the right path,” he reassures before his eyes turn hot and threatening. “If not, then certain punishments for you and the boy will be ensured.”  
  
“What?” She blanches, something unsavoury on the tip of her tongue. “What are you going to do?”  
  
The Phoenix Priest stands up, brushes lint off his red robes, and walks two steps away from her before turning back with a burning glint in his eyes. “Death, Ms Granger, is such a peculiar thing, always taking but never giving back. I wonder what a sweet girl like you would do if your love is suddenly snatched away from you.”  
  
Then, he disappears to whatever hell he came from.  
  
Hermione decides that she may hate old cunts a lot, she hates whenever they’re right more.  
  


* * *

**31st of December 150 AV  
  
  
** **** He meets her with a melancholic smile at the end of the year in the same place they’ve always bonded. She doesn't smile back, but he can see that her eyes remarkably light up at the sight of him walking towards her, sitting next to her.   
  
They let out a simultaneous sigh when they look for help at the statue who’s been a witness to all their loving.    
  
The end is near, and they both acknowledge its impending arrival, knowing that to fight against it would be futile. So instead of telling everything and everyone to fuck off, they sit still and wait patiently for their deadline.   
  
“I’m useless,” he utters, tears already dripping before he even says anything. “I’m the prince, but I can’t protect my own people—the people who’ve always believed in me. Now, they’re all dead. Because of me.”   
  
He speaks of the guilt his heart holds and will forever hold. He blames himself for the war, for the deaths, and for all the chaos. He thinks of his inability to stop the war as the sole reason why everyone keeps dying. She takes his hands in hers and rests her forehead on his as a way to provide comfort.   
  
“I wish I could’ve experienced being a child,” she confesses after the winds blow out the candles and all she can see is the tearful glimmer in his grey eyes. “All I know is fighting in this war when I know I shouldn't even be worried about anything but homework. We’re just kids, like all the orphans here.”   
  
She speaks of the desperate wish she has to be a normal child. She blames the Phoenix, the Dark Lord, and all the members of their generation for prolonging the war and not ending it before more can suffer. He kisses her nose and declares his love for her to let her know that he’s still here, still listening.   
  
They rant about love and all the heartbreak that comes with it. They think it stupid for love not being enough for two people from two different worlds to stay. They feel like they’ve been made a fool of by love. They don’t think they deserve love but find themselves craving for more of it anyway.   
  
And when the imaginary hourglass runs out of sand, he makes a promise to her. He promises that after the war, he will make sure she’s the first one he’ll look for—here, in the beloved Church of Soteria—and she promises she will wait for him, even if it takes forever.   
  
They leave their love in Church of Soteria at dawn, but they know it will never be forgotten.  
  


* * *

**3rd of May 157 AV  
**

The Church of Soteria is now debris and ashes, a sacred place destroyed for the sake of shedding blood. Soteria’s statue remains still partially standing, though, only the right side of the goddess’s face gone. Hermione wonders if it was shame or carelessness that stopped the destructors from completely shattering the statue.  
  
It is such a sad sight to see the goddess of safety herself standing amidst the place she failed to protect.  
  
After the demilitarized zone somehow sided with the Chosen One, the safe haven for war victims became no more than another bloody playground for the Rebellion and the Salvation to play and throw soldiers in. When she heard the news a few years ago, Hermione remembers telling herself to forget everything else and to continue fighting until the end. For the children.  
  
Now, she’s never truly expected to be here, at the end of everything, alive and mostly well, but here she is.  
  
After fighting a war her whole life, seeing it end for herself feels… strange. When she saw the Dark Lord fall and disappear in a cloud of black smoke at the hands of Harry Potter himself, every cell in her body quietened. She’s relieved, of course, but she’s also lost. She still has no idea what to do with her life after everything she’s ever known just stopped.  
  
So Hermione went to the place where she knows certainties lie ahead.  
  
Is it terrible of her to say that the Church of Soteria still looks hauntingly majestic after all the destruction? After it’s been stripped and burnt to the ground? Strangely enough, it still feels like a place of worship to her. Maybe it’s the familiarity. Maybe it’s because of the boy she so desperately called home when she was younger.  
  
Hermione forces her eyelids to close, wanting to prevent the tears from falling at the mere thought of _him._  
  
Her separation from him didn’t do anything to stop her heart from falling in love with him even more. In fact, she finds herself missing his smile as much she misses harmony and peace. There was a time when all she saw everywhere were his silver gaze and his perfect smile. His lips visit her at night, in her dreams, and she questions every day if his kisses would still feel as bittersweet as it did years ago. Or would he taste as right as destiny now that the war’s over and done with?  
  
She hopes to all the deities she prays to that he’s somehow safe from harm, that he’s somehow alive and ready to meet her in the place he promised she would find him as soon as the war ends. Knowing that not a single plea of hers has been heard by any of the gods, Hermione still persists with one last prayer.  
  
‘_Let me see him today, please,_’ she begs inwardly, her hands trembling and her lips quivering. ‘_Please keep him safe. Give me a chance to love him this time. Please._’  
  
But she hears no footsteps approach her and no breathing around her.   
  
He isn’t coming.  
  
Hermione’s eyes shoot open, ready to shed tears, and finds that a prayer of hers has finally come true.  
  
Draco stands in front of her, older now with a new scar across his cheek yet still a magnificent sight to behold. He’s never looked more beautiful. Her skin aches to be touched by his already. She wants to hold him, keep him in her arms until the world is truly safe.  
  
“Draco,” she breathes, and the tears that rain down her cheeks cannot be held back anymore.  
  
He smiles in response, his own eyes glistening, and her world seems to look brighter already. “Hermione.”  
  
“You’re here,” she croaks as though her words are something she doesn’t believe herself.  
  
He reaches out and takes one of her hand in his, placing it before his lips, his smile never faltering. “And I always will be, if you’ll have me.”  
  
Draco kisses her knuckles, reigniting pleasant flutters in her stomach.  
  
And at that moment, Hermione knows that everything is going to be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys, I'm back with another AU! After what feels like centuries, I've finally found my motivation to write! I miss Dramione. Dramione feels like home. This work has actually been difficult for me to write lol. I'm not a big fan of Voldemort Wins AUs, so I just decided to make my own twist on it. Hope you guys enjoy this one!
> 
> This piece is written for DFW's 2019 Halloween Trope Fest! Make sure you read the other entries!
> 
> Paalam! :)


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